Paper Things

by Jennifer Richard Jacobson

  I’m getting close to the end — all the information is in place, but I’ll need to fix the spacing before I turn it in — when Daniel reaches over and brushes his hand across my keypad, minimizing my bibliography.

  “Daniel! ” I snap. “Quit messing —”

  “Ari,” says Ms. Finch from behind me. Her wool pants brush against my arm. “Have you pulled up the class results?”

  “Results?” I say weakly, but Daniel jumps in.

  “We pulled up the results together. See?” He points to the word cloud on his screen. The word community is large and in the center. Around it are words in different sizes and colors, hanging together like a floating mobile. Togetherness stands out in large bold letters, almost as big as the word community.

  Ms. Finch nods and moves on.

  I glance at Daniel. “Thanks,” I mutter, wondering why he’s gone out of his way to help me — but too afraid of the answer to ask.

  “Come with me to the lab,” I say to Sasha. “Please?”

  “That bibliography was due ages ago,” says Linnie. We’re at the lunch table, and I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to get my bibliography printed and in my hands before social studies.

  I ignore Linnie and continue to wheedle Sasha. “Please,” I repeat. “It’s my only option.”

  “Without a pass?” She’s staring at me the same way her mother does anytime she thinks I’m luring Sasha into mischief.

  “If we ask for a pass, the monitor will just say that Ms. Finch isn’t there during lunch period. And that’s the whole point.”

  Sasha sighs. I have never asked her to break the rules before. “Let’s go,” she says.

  “Chandler will have your heads if you’re caught,” Linnie says.

  I ignore her and wait for the monitor to walk over to one of the noisier tables. When he does, Sasha and I slip out of the lunchroom.

  “Just act confident,” I say to Sasha. “Like we have been asked to run an important errand.”

  “I’m pretty sure teachers aren’t fooled that easily,” Sasha says.

  But when we pass Mr. Granger, our fourth-grade teacher, in front of the teachers’ lounge, he says, “Hello, ladies,” without stopping us — probably ’cause we used to be his best-behaved students. For a moment I wish I were still a fourth-grader.

  Mademoiselle Barbary does stop us, but I say, “Computer lab,” in such a strong, sure voice that she just nods and says, “Vite, vite!”

  “See?” I say.

  “Just go,” Sasha says, nodding to the lab, up ahead.

  Dim light behind the narrow window tells us the room is not being used, but Sasha stops cold when I open the door to go in. The computer lab, with all the laptops and MP3 players, is probably the worst place in the whole school to be caught without permission. And we both have a lot to lose. I risk never getting a leadership role. Sasha risks losing the points she’s made by being patrol leader. We could both end up with detentions, which stay on your permanent record. So much for Carter Middle School then.

  I slowly open the door.

  “I’m going back,” Sasha says. Her face is a splotchy red, the way it always is when she gets nervous.

  For a moment I consider going back with her, but I’m so close to being able to hand something in to Mr. O. . . . I nod OK and then slip into the lab. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, then I slide over to the laptop smack in the middle of the row ahead of me. I’m pretty sure it’s the one I used. I hope it hasn’t been powered down; Ms. Finch is the only one with the passwords for signing on to the computers again.

  I tap the keypad and it wakes. I’m logged on, thank goodness, but I can’t find my bibliography. I didn’t get the chance to save it before Daniel minimized the window. But there are no open windows on my machine.

  My heart sinks. I click on the trash can. Maybe someone deleted it?

  “Is this what you’re looking for, Arianna?”

  It’s Ms. Finch, standing in the doorway with a sheet of paper in her hand. The light is dim, but I know she’s not smiling.

  “I think so,” I say, guessing it’s my bibliography. My hands are shaking.

  “You know,” she says, coming over and shutting the laptop, “I wasn’t born yesterday. A blank desktop tells me that a student has been perusing the Internet, that she’s been doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing.”

  “I wasn’t on a restricted site —”

  “No, you were doing your homework for Mr. O’Neil during my class time. You felt his assignment merited your attention more than mine.”

  When she says this, it sounds worse. Worse than goofing off, worse than looking at stuff we’re not supposed to. It sounds like I don’t think she matters.

  “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you, Arianna,” she says before I can figure out what to say.

  Suddenly I feel the urge to tell her everything — about leaving Janna’s and hopping from place to place. About leaving the books at Chloe’s and struggling to find the time to do my homework. But I can’t betray Gage. Besides, Mr. Chandler instituted a “no excuses” policy this year, and I don’t want to break that rule, too. So I just stay silent, wishing I actually were invisible.

  “Get yourself back to the cafeteria now,” she says, dismissing me, “before someone catches you without a pass.”

  I nod and hurry to the door before she sees my tears. Ever since we left Janna’s, nothing has gone right. It’s starting to feel like the year when Mama died all over again.

  We have a substitute teacher in science class, which is almost like having a snow day. No one bothers to pay attention, to do any real work. Lots of kids are talking, passing notes, even reading, in class. The sub doesn’t seem to care. She just draws a cell diagram on the board and explains what she’s drawing as if every single one of us found the structure of cells more interesting than juicy gossip.

  I put my head down on the desk. The wood feels cool on my cheek.

  “Do you feel all right?” the sub asks as she hands me a sheet of paper.

  I sit up again and shrug. I can’t stop thinking about my next class: social studies. What am I going to tell Mr. O.?

  Maybe I don’t feel OK. Maybe I’m sick. Maybe I should head down to the nurse’s office. I think of lying on the green cot, the white cotton blanket draped over me. In the nurse’s office, there’s nothing more to do than watch the hands on the clock tick around.

  Yes, I’m definitely feeling sick. I gather my courage to say so, but just then, the bell rings and kids swarm like bees out the door and into the hall.

  I let the crowd carry me — all the way to social studies. Mr. O. is standing at his desk.

  “Mr. O’Neil,” I whisper as I approach him. What can I even say? I’m not allowed to make excuses, but if I just tell him I don’t have my assignment — again — he’ll think it’s because I didn’t even try to get it done.

  Mr. O. picks up a piece of paper and waves it at me. “I was very glad to see this on my desk today, Arianna.”

  I look down. He’s holding my bibliography. My bibliography, with my name at the top and the spacing corrected.

  “Now that you have your sources, let’s see if you can’t get the outline to me, too,” he says.

  I keep staring at my bibliography.

  “Ari?”

  “Oh, I have my outline,” I say, reaching into my backpack. “It’s not typed —”

  Mr. O. looks down at my outline and to my amazement nods in approval. “Looks like an interesting paper, Arianna, especially this section on activism. Do you think I might see an introduction soon?”

  “Soon!” I say.

  “Promise?” he asks, a little too loudly.

  “Promise!”

  How did this happen? I wonder, but I think I know.

  I recall the word cloud we made in computer lab. What were some of the most prominent words? Togetherness and help and support. I decide that I’d also add kindness. And another word, which I’d t
ype in ten times to make it stand out bigger and bolder than the rest:

  Daniel.

  “So, how is it being patrol leader?” I ask Sasha when I meet up with her after school. What I don’t say is Ms. Finch caught me in the computer lab and I think I might be in serious trouble or Daniel turned in my bibliography and really saved my behind, but I think the only reason he did it is because he feels sorry for me.

  “The best part is getting out of school early,” she says.

  “And the kinders,” I prompt, smiling at the nickname.

  “Yeah, they’re OK,” Sasha says. But she doesn’t sound as excited as she did just yesterday. I wait for her to tell me what’s changed, but she remains quiet.

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” I stop and pull two math sheets out of my backpack. I hand one to Sasha and slip the other one down between my Paper Things folder and my science journal.

  She moans. “Fractions and decimals again?”

  “Want some help?”

  “Please! I don’t get them,” she says. “Especially their relationship.”

  “Why don’t I spend the night tomorrow night, and I could help you then?” I suggest, hoping my voice sounds natural, casual. It’s easier on Gage when I stay with Sasha. He can get into Lighthouse without West sneaking him in, and his friends don’t seem to mind as much when it’s just him crashing at their place. Maybe he and Chloe can even have a date night!

  She pauses. “Or we could stay at Janna’s.”

  My stomach lurches. “I thought you didn’t like it at Janna’s that much,” I say, hoping this sounds like the logical reason for not inviting her over for months.

  “She rents the best movies,” Sasha says.

  “Forty-eight-hour rule,” I say, sighing with what I hope sounds like regret. I always used to hate this rule of Janna’s — that she needed at least forty-eight hours’ notice before a guest came over — but now I’m grateful for it.

  Sasha sighs, too, though hers sounds less regretful and more frustrated. “I’ll ask my mother if you can come over again tomorrow night.”

  “Great!” I say, trying to ignore the emphasis.

  “Call tonight after you ask,” she says.

  “OK,” I say, hoping she won’t wonder why I’m calling on Gage’s phone again.

  Even though I know that Sasha is a little bit resentful about having to ask her mother if I can stay over again, all I can think of at this moment is that extra twin bed in her room, with the puffy comforter and clean, crisp sheets.

  Heaven.

  As I cross the road to Head Start, I see the airplane man from the soup kitchen sitting against a brick apartment building. He’s got his arms wrapped around his dog, his chin resting on its head. The dog lifts its head and wags its tail as I come closer.

  If Janna, the Queen of Rules, as Gage likes to say, were with me, she’d pull me away and remind me never to speak to strangers (rule number 72). But I’ve seen this man lots of times at the soup kitchen, so he’s no longer a stranger to me. Besides, the dog is looking at me with its big brown eyes, and all I can think about is Leroy, our old terrier.

  “May I pet him?” My voice wobbles a little. I’ve never spoken to the airplane man before, not even to ask for a plane. Guess I felt that I should have outgrown them — the way I probably should have outgrown my Paper Things by now.

  He nods and I reach down and touch the soft brown fur between the dog’s ears. The dog reaches its nose out and nudges the palm of my hand as if to say, “More.”

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Her name’s Amelia.”

  Amelia smells funky, like Leroy used to when he went too long between baths, but I move my hand all the way down her back just the same.

  “Poor girl hasn’t eaten today,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down his beard, like his chin itches.

  “How come?”

  “Some days food’s just a little harder to come by.” Amelia rolls over to show us her tummy. She’s loving the pats.

  “The soup kitchen doesn’t allow dogs, right?” I ask.

  He nods, looking at me more closely now, like he’s trying to place me. “Right. But even if they did, dogs need food that’s made for a dog,” he says. “Or eventually they get sick.”

  Poor Amelia. I reach into my coat pocket and touch the coins I’ve collected today. They’re more than just found money; they’re my way of showing Gage that I can help. But then I look at Amelia’s eyes, and I swear my stomach does a flip-flop.

  “Here,” I say, holding out the fourteen cents. “I know it’s not much, but if you keep looking, you might find enough to buy a can of dog food. A can of Alpo only costs fifty-two cents at Walmart.” I know because I was cutting cans and boxes out of the mailer last week to tuck behind my paper cabinets.

  “You seem to know a lot of things,” he says. “What’s your name?”

  “Ari. Short for Arianna.”

  “Thanks, Ari. But I can’t take your money.”

  “It’s OK,” I say. “I’ll feel better if I know Amelia isn’t hungry.”

  “You’re a good kid,” he says, and lets me drop the coins into his palm. Just then, I hear my name called from across the street. It’s Carol at Head Start, and she’s holding the door open for me.

  “I better go,” I say, giving Amelia one last pat.

  “Next time I see you, Arianna,” he says, “I’ll have an airplane with your name on it.”

  As I stand on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for a break in the traffic, I place my hand in my empty pocket. It’s OK, I tell myself. I’ll search for pennies for twice as long tomorrow.

  “Do you know him?” Carol asks as I pass through the door, but before I’ve had a chance to answer, she asks if I wouldn’t mind putting up a bulletin board in the front hall. She explains that she’d like me to staple up yellow construction paper with a lime-green wavy border all around the edges, and purple letters that say, WELCOME, SPRING! The board is high, so I have to stand on a small step stool to reach. It’s actually kind of fun, and I feel like one of the teachers today instead of one of the kids.

  Carol goes back inside the classroom, and Fran pops out.

  “What do you think of these?” Fran says, carrying out some artwork the kids just finished. She’s holding pussy-willow pictures made from brown paint blown through a straw, with little pieces of cotton ball glued on.

  “Oh,” I say, climbing down from the stool and touching one of the little fuzzy balls with my finger. And then my eyes sting with tears the way they do at the most ridiculous times. Think of spring sunshine, think of petting Amelia, think of anything but pussy willows. But it doesn’t work. A tear rolls down my cheek.

  “My mom made these with me,” I explain to Fran, who is bending toward me, her eyes searching, trying to see into the secrets of me. But she doesn’t hug me the way Carol would.

  “Maybe you would like to come inside and make a picture, then,” she says.

  “That’s OK,” I say, sniffling and smiling to show that things really are OK. “Do you want me to put these on the board?”

  She nods. “But start with the drier ones,” she says. “Or else we’ll have brown paint and glue dripping all over your yellow paper.”

  I staple one of the pussy-willow pictures to the board and wonder what Mama would say about all the lying I seem to be doing lately. ’Cause the truth is, she never made pussy-willow pictures with me. Not ever. Janna did.

  Janna used to do all kinds of crafts with us. She would spread a plastic tablecloth on the dining-room table and line up all the art supplies. Then she’d instruct us, like a teacher, on what to do first, what to do second. I was always happy sitting in my chair, wearing one of her old shirts for a smock, following her instructions. “Now take a teaspoon of brown paint and place it on your blue paper near the center. Not that much, Gage. Less! Less!”

  I’d take my straw and gently blow the paint into a long, graceful stalk. Gage would blow too hard, causing the paint to
run off the paper and onto the tablecloth.

  “Gage, stop it!” Janna would shout. “Go grab a sponge and clean up your mess.”

  “Why does everything always have to be your way?” he’d ask.

  “Because I’m the grown-up,” Janna would say.

  “Well, when I’m older, I’m only going to do the stuff I want to do,” Gage would invariably counter.

  “Not while you’re living under my roof,” Janna would say, and then Gage would stomp off, forgetting all about the sponge and leaving Janna to pick up his mess.

  After a while, Janna gave up craft time. Gage didn’t want to come to the table, and I didn’t want to do anything without Gage.

  I think about pussy willows. How little fuzzy pearls bloom from sturdy, straight sticks. How they burst open just when you’ve had way too much winter, promising spring.

  I look down at the artwork spread out on the floor. Some pictures look like pussy willows against a blue sky; some look like poodles rolling in a mud puddle.

  “Here, Ari.” It’s Omar. He’s standing in the hall next to Carol, holding out a newly painted pussy-willow picture. “I made this one for you.”

  It’s messy. The paint is streaming in unexpected directions, and the cotton balls are gloppy with glue.

  “I love it,” I tell him. And I do.

  “They want someone with experience,” says Gage. He and Briggs are sitting on Briggs’s love seat, looking at Briggs’s iPad.

  “Maybe they’ll train,” says Briggs, who is trying to be patient, but I can tell he’s sick of Gage coming up with a reason for not applying to every job. I know, and Briggs knows, that it’s not that Gage doesn’t want to work — he works harder than anyone. And he really, really, really wants to get a job so we can get an apartment. It’s just that he hates it when he asks and people tell him no.

  I look up from my math homework. “Who’s hiring?”

  “Jiffy Lube,” says Briggs. “It’s a service station — for cars.”